Free The Train to Lo Wu by Jess Row Page B

he says. That’s not very American, is it? I’m going to say,
you don’t really want what
you’re chasing after.
    That sounds like good advice.
    And then chances are she’ll leave me.
    Don’t say that, Hae Wol says, a stricken look on his face. You have to have faith in her. Even if she doesn’t deserve it.
    He sees her sitting at the tiny dining table in their apartment, opening the letter and scanning it intently, her forehead creased with fear. Her legs are curled up underneath her; she leans forward into the pool of dim light from the window, even though the switch for the lamp is right behind her. Part of her doesn’t notice, and part of her wants to stay there, crouched in the gloom, as if she doesn’t deserve anything better. It isn’t about sacrifice, he thinks, or mortgaging the present for the future. When did she come to believe that hating her own weakness was the only way to survive?
Melinda,
he wants to tell her,
you can choose happiness,
but you have to choose.
And relief floods over him like cold rain.
    I’ve been thinking about you, the teacher says, when Lewis enters the room and bows. Something’s changed. Your face looks better.
    Does it?
    I have a little speech I want to give you. But you don’t have to hear it if you don’t want to.
    Of course I do.
    Every day, the teacher says, we recite the four great vows:
Sentientbeings are numberless. We vow to save them all. Delusions are
endless. We vow to extinguish them all. The teachings are infinite. We
vow to learn them all. The Buddha way is inconceivable. We vow to
attain it.
    So what does this mean? What does it mean to vow to do the impossible?
    It means that we’re never finished.
    Yes. But what else?
    It means that the standard is impossibly high. Always out of reach.
    Is that the way we practice?
    No. I guess not.
    Our great teacher says,
try, try, try, for ten thousand years.
Do you understand what that means?
    Lewis starts to speak, and shakes his head.
    This isn’t a game, the teacher says, leaning forward and staring at him. Lewis feels his eyes watering, and tries not to blink. You don’t
figure these things out.
The great work of life and death is happening all around us all the time. When do you have the chance to sit back and consider every possible option? You have to
act.
    And what if you’re wrong? What if it turns out to be a disaster?
    The teacher reaches out with his stick and raps him on the knee.
    It already
is
a disaster, he says. Don’t cling to some dream of a perfect world. Put down your fear and you can cut a path through the darkness.
    Without thinking, Lewis bows, resting his head on the floor, raising his open palms in the air. I’m trying, he says. That’s all I can do.
    Now
you understand, the teacher says. This is love. Go home and take this mind with you.
    Before climbing the stairs to the dharma room, he opens the outside door and steps out into the courtyard. It is just sunset, and the sky above the mountain is washed with orange and gold; but in the west a dark line of clouds throws the city into shadow, and the air tastes of snow. He is wearing only socks, and the cold sears his skin with every step.
Is this what hope is like,
he wonders.
How long
has it been? How would I know?
He opens the door again and climbs the stairs slowly, staring at his feet, making no sound.

The Train to Lo Wu

    Whenever I remember Lin I think of taxicabs. We spent so much of our time sitting in the back of one, somewhere in Shenzhen—speeding away from the border crossing station, or returning to it. In my memory it was always a bright morning, sun streaming through the dusty windows, or late at night, our bodies striped with the colors of the neon lights passing overhead. We sat on opposite sides of the seat, our hands folded, like brother and sister; she wouldn’t let me speak, or even touch her leg. If the driver heard my terrible Mandarin, she said, he and his friends would know exactly who she was: another country